Design To Escape

By Joshua Holmes

After years behind bars, Thor resolves to get out. But as the latest inmate to attempt the most recent high profile prison break from PA’s York County Prison, he again is faced with his curse. Just feet from freedom, he has an epileptic seizure, and is caught by the guards. Even so, in the ensuing days, he refuses to give up information regarding the design to escape. That same week, Graphic Designer Remi Painter visits the prison to look into a teaching opportunity. However, even before he completes the classroom tour, the warden tells him there has been a change in plan. Remi, also afflicted by epilepsy, will do what interrogators cannot: relate to Thor and obtain clues he has yet to release. Remi succeeds, but is confused when the warden brings the talks to a halt. Emotionally invested, Remi seeks answers, but soon finds out he’s learned too much. With the help of his friends, he will attempt to escape those who want him silenced, and uncover the secrets that may or may not save him from peril.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joshua Holmes
• Release date: Dec 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310420863

Joshua Holmes

A GRADUATE OF the Pennsylvania State University (M.Ed.), the Edinboro University of Pennsylvania (B.A.), and the Art Institute of York-PA (B.S.), Joshua Holmes has studied the fine arts, design, and writing for over 20 years.The sole proprietor and lead designer of JAHbookdesign, he also specializes in all areas of publishing, graphic design, and illustration (portraiture, animation, and wildlife). He has been commissioned by numerous collectors and authors within the community, and has won several awards in various shows and fairs. He has authored an autobiography, a how to series, and two fiction series about life with epilepsy, seventeen novels to date - The Art of Pastel Mastery, The Art of Colored Pencil Mastery, The Art of Oil Paint Mastery, The Art of Graphite Pencil Mastery, Memory Lapse, Grand Mal, Seizure, Status, Trigger, Design To Kill, Design For Justice, Shattered Lung, Design To Escape, Design For Honor, Design For Power, Design For The Cure, and Painting The Whole Picture: Portrait of an Artist with Epilepsy - all of which are available in print, ebook, and audiobook.He attributes his success to the Lord, and the strength God gives him in order to persist and grow as a more patient and thorough artist and writer. A vision cut in both eyes from brain surgery for epilepsy, and CP in his right side since birth, with the Lord's help, Josh continues to write, to see more detail, and to improve with time.He encourages you to explore and exercise your creative side, and enjoy what the Lord does through it.Visit Joshua Holmes at his professional site jahbookdesign.com and at all online book distributors.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

THE ESCAPE ATTEMPT

Thor was just feet from freedom. The closest, logistically, he’d ever been. And yet the escape attempt from York County Prison was far from over, he promised himself. Yes, the worst of it was finished: temporarily fooling the on-duty staff, avoiding the cameras, breaching the prison walls, and braving the sewage system. But it all came back to this exact spot. Could he navigate the depths, and reach the surface?

For fifteen years, he’d dreamt countless times of this very moment. One imagined scenario ended in independence, the other in capture. Never in death, thank God, but as the 2015 New York prison escape proved, it was always a possibility.

Granted, the practice runs allayed the nightmares some. Every time Thor successfully completed the preliminary phase, it gave him confidence. He could literally visualize a smooth getaway, but first things first.

He’d been at it nonstop for hours now, his willpower put to the test, no question. He could feel the burn in his arms and legs, and the emergence of mental exhaustion. But images of the day he was unjustly arrested and detained also cycled through his mind, images of his condition, epilepsy, wreaking havoc on his body behind bars too, motivating him. And flashes of what he’d already endured, the purpose for the attempt, and the potential liberty it would allot pushed him even harder.

To simplify the attempt, Thor did direct a high-intensity flashlight in the darkness, along the pathway. The sound of moving vermin reverberated in the dismal, hollow space, the stench of waste nauseating him, but he remained oriented. It was crucial.

Thor was in line, again, behind his friends and co-conspirators, Ramsey and Stew, as he had been his entire imprisoned life, whether to shower, to eat, to head out into the yard, or to get his medicine. Only this time, they traversed the tail end of a large drainage pipe, ultimately in hopes of reaching the ladder just ahead. If properly used, it would lead them upward and aboveground.

Water and sludge clung to Thor all over, probably more so than to the others, since in addition to his own accumulated filth, he also got his friends’ excess. Thor was the biggest, too. Whereas Ramsey was a white-collar criminal, tall and wiry with a shaved head, and Stew was a blue-collar criminal, average in height and top heavy with a mop of blond hair, Thor was neither, yet a lumbering presence, beefy, bald and heavy-footed. So close to the finish line, though, he ignored the smut his size invited, shook it off as needed, and pushed on.

Still on schedule, Thor patiently clung to the slimy, metal ladder as Stew straddled the rusted handle above him, and closest to the surface Ramsey worked on the sewage grate that was their final obstacle.

From his vantage point, all Thor could see were his friends’ obscure, moving silhouettes, and all he could do was wait and listen to Ramsey exert himself.

They talked about it before they began: the fact that they were taking on this massive challenge minus the help of any prison employees or any outside involvement.

Thor looked at his watch, like he had every five minutes since they’d undone the handcuffs, removed the cell toilet from the wall, and entered that narrow yet long, hidden hole behind it, which they’d all diligently dug and kept concealed for months.

Every five minutes, after re-installing the toilet from within, he consulted his timer to track the speed of their movements as they distanced themselves from the wailing sirens, and sweatily maneuvered their way, around the pipes and through the winding maze of smaller, mud- and stone-caked tributaries that led to the eventual larger opening, from which they also now wanted to depart.

And if Ramsey would abide by the design to escape and displace the sewage grate as he’d practiced, all three men would soon have a shot at a final escape run.

The looming, cumulus clouds overhead slid across the sky at a steady pace, a consistent speed that on ground level Ramsey and Stew proved to match.

Once the coast was clear, Ramsey and Stew ascended, and then turned, as they’d all agreed they should, to continue undeterred.

Still adjusting to the light, Thor climbed out, covered the hole, and squinted, still operating on adrenaline, as he stealthily followed his friends.

He momentarily observed the white exterior of the compound, the dark, three-tiered, wooden fences and splintered signs with white type – akin to those that graced county parks – at the prison’s property line, and the grass on the outskirts of the parking lot. He felt he had his bearings. But that’s when it all went south.

In mid-stride, disorientation overwhelmed him, as did a strong sensation in his eyes that enhanced the stimuli emitted all around him. He one minute had an ounce of control over his immediate world, the next his world was spinning. He had power in his body, and then he had none. His seizures always happened like this, hitting hard, randomly and suddenly, and just when he was nearly home free.

He lost his speech, spun sideways, all the way back, until he landed with a thud a short distance from the grate, and started convulsing.

For a minute he heard his friends call his name, heard them consult about their next move, and finally, upon deciding to leave Thor behind, heard the tap-tap of running feet on pavement that grew softer and softer in the distance.

In the grass outside York County Prison, Thor’s tremors persisted, and he cried out in terror as guards closed in.

1

DRY SPOT

With a spark of interest, I leaned over and grabbed the TV remote from my living room coffee table, and hastily turned up the volume when I randomly saw an ad for an employment opportunity at the York County Prison.

Like most days, I had reached a point where I couldn’t take any more negativity in the news, and had muted it to still the distraction, yet left the screen on in the background as I continued working on a lone, freelance, book cover design project. I had looked up from my computer to see if there were any changes of which I hadn’t already heard or seen, and fortunately caught the county human resources number. Things had been slow for me – the paid assignments sparse – and I was desperate for anything that would fill the dry spot and bring me some steady income.

Conveniently, I had a pen and sticky pad close by, and I copied down the posted number and website, so that I could follow up on the possibility later in the day.

When I was done writing everything down, I tore the paper sheet from the pad and stuck it on the fridge in the kitchen. I stood before the fridge, serious expression on my face, arms crossed, looking at my writing, debating whether or not it was a good idea.

I’d worked for the county before as a city government cleric, and I knew of the hiring process. Depending what category the position fell into would determine the measures I’d have to take to qualify – the number of interviews, the application practices and pre-employment testing, for instance.

Measures aside though, the newscaster said the job description entailed teaching a design basics class at the prison. I had assisted in a tutoring capacity back in my design school days, but never as a lead in a classroom setting, much less one filled with criminals. I needed to do my own research on the demands, to decide whether – regardless of my financial situation – it was realistic for me to pursue the vocation in its hopeless and often dangerous venue.

When you had a diagnosis of any kind, it made you think twice. I was diagnosed early on with epilepsy, and – though they didn’t dominate my life – the seizures that came with it sometimes dictated the activities and environments I sought. I had a gut feeling my condition might play a role in this instance, but I didn’t anticipate just how.

From what I could gather, The York County Prison wasn’t the biggest or most notorious of penitentiaries, but it was classified as medium security, and detained around three thousand inmates, male and female, many of whom were unruly, illegal immigrants. Apparently, for most, it was meant to act as a short-term punishment until individual issues could be addressed in the courts. Let’s be honest, though; since when did the system ever respect time?

As I suspected, in addition to the short-term occupants, there were minimum security and maximum security inmates, the former likely in line for work release, and the latter locked up for a lengthy duration, until they were transferred, or alternately rehabilitated. And surely, there were those who got lost and later stuck in the system, justly or unjustly.

I imagined if I got the teaching job, I would be working with the latter segment of the population. Naturally, I had mixed feelings about that.

As those who knew me would likely attest, I almost always took time to acknowledge my apprehensions, and with logic and reason, I coaxed myself through personal hang ups, but I rarely succumbed to my fears. While I had a healthy concern about the job at the prison, I eventually put it aside and moved ahead with my plans to seek employment.

When I finished weighing the pros and cons, I guess I ultimately concluded that if I was intended to spend the next phase of my life teaching inmates, it would play out that way. And if not, well, it wouldn’t.

As planned, in the afternoon I sat back down on my couch in the living room, called the number, and had an informative discussion with Claire Lewis, the HR rep, who was a serious type from what I could tell.

I had sent her my resume, which in my view nicely summed up my academic and professional careers and numerous art and design achievements to date, which I assumed at the time would work to my advantage.

You have a solid resume here, Mr. Painter. Her words would have encouraged me, but she stated them without affect, causing me to question her sincerity.

Thank you, Ms. Lewis, I said. I’ve worked hard.

I’m sure you have, she said flatly. As have the others who expressed interest.

I wondered how many others there were, if in fact there were any. How many people would want to work at the prison? How many would actually qualify? I knew HR had a tendency to keep you guessing